by Ben Sanders
Later, they find a 24/7 McDonald’s on Great South Road. Devereaux’s choice: he’d found cholesterol an effective adrenaline counteragent.
The place is quiet, and the staff are pleased for patronage: no better customers at five a.m. on Great South Road in an empty restaurant than a pair of cops. They order burgers and fries and sit facing each other in a corner booth near the rear. Silence as they begin eating. Lack of conversation isn’t an issue: they’ve had four nights’ practice sitting in a patrol car.
Hale says, ‘I didn’t mean to piss you off.’
Devereaux glances up at him, says nothing. He can sense there’re things Hale wants to get off his chest, but he’s still irritated enough to make him work for it.
Hale says, ‘I’ve had blow-ups at that address before, so I knew it was going to be a priority. It’s not that I don’t care about your input.’
‘Cheers. I appreciate it.’
Hale slouches lower, drapes an arm along the top of the seat. ‘You looked a bit off-colour in there.’
‘Don’t tell me that’s genuine concern.’
‘Concern for me, not you. I don’t want to carry you if you keel over.’
The delivery’s deadpan, it’s not until he cracks a smile that Devereaux sees he’s kidding.
‘You’ve got a sense of humour too.’ Devereaux drops his eyelids and shakes his head. ‘Thank heavens.’
Hale shrugs, but he doesn’t look put out. ‘Whatever. I’d like the record to show that I tried to be civil.’
‘No, you’re right. I’m jerking your chain.’ Devereaux falls quiet, considers appropriate phrasing. He says, ‘It brought up bad memories.’
‘What part?’
‘All of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘Can’t we save Q and A for another night?’
‘I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just interested.’
Devereaux chews and swallows. He looks at him a long time. He says, ‘I don’t really want to talk about it. I appreciate the concern.’
Hale chews a chip, looks away. A plastic sandwich board warning of a wet floor stands above its own milky reflection.
Devereaux says, ‘How long have you been a cop?’
‘Four years.’
‘What did you do before?’
The front door pushes open and two people enter. Hale tracks them eyes only, looks back at Devereaux. ‘Military police,’ he says.
‘Why did you quit?’
He makes a face. ‘Wanted to do something other than background-check new recruits all day. What about you?’
‘What about me what?’
‘What did you do before this?’
‘Before this I was in university.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Studying English.’
Hale nods slowly. ‘Read any Steinbeck?’
‘Some.’
‘Enjoy it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Good. I like a man who likes his Steinbeck.’
Metallic clatters and the smell of hot oil from the kitchen. ‘What will happen to the little girl?’ Devereaux says.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.’
Devereaux looks at him. Hale makes a little gesture with the hand propped on the seat. He says, ‘You see people like that every day; can’t worry about all of them. At some point it brims over.’
Devereaux says nothing. The two people take their order and sit down in a booth. They’re having trouble maintaining balance. Maybe they’d envisioned a burger-fuelled detox session.
Hale balls his burger wrapper. He checks his hands carefully for sauce traces. ‘You want to stay on beat and patrol, or you want to specialise?’
‘I’m going to be a detective.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘You being facetious?’
‘No. I mean, good luck with that. I think there’re a lot of shitty people around, so I’m pleased you’re trying to balance things out.’
Devereaux nods. ‘I’m sorry I froze up on you in there. If he’d managed to get the rifle, we would have been in trouble.’
‘Yes. We would have been.’ Hale looks across the room, out the front window into the dark, where the cars slip back and forth behind ploughs of white glow. ‘All that secret human misery,’ he says.
His tone makes Devereaux think there’s more to come, but he just sits there quietly and watches Devereaux finish his burger.
Hale stands up and rolls his shoulders. ‘You’re getting your colour back,’ he says. He drops the keys on the table. They ring heavily in the quiet room. ‘You can drive,’ he says. ‘I’m stuffed.’
THIRTY-ONE
WEDNESDAY, 15 FEBRUARY, 4.29 P.M.
Ellen called just as Devereaux was leaving. He sat in the car with his door open, one foot on the ground outside.
‘You keep missing my calls,’ she said when he answered.
‘Sorry. Stuff’s flat out.’
‘You haven’t forgotten about tonight?’
He pushed the heel of his hand in one eye. What the hell is tonight? ‘What’s tonight?’
‘Drinks at my parents’ place. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten.’
Memory kicked in. ‘Oh. Yeah. I remembered that. I thought there might have been something else. I don’t know.’
‘Right. So you’ll be coming then.’
The cigarette on his lip was dwindling: he chained a fresh one, tip to tip. He didn’t want to go. During the week he’d been forced to kill a man, he could justify non-attendance. But he said, ‘Uh-huh. After what time are guests welcome?’
‘Well, six. But why don’t you come a wee bit earlier, and then you can have a chat to Mum and Dad before everyone else starts showing up.’
He thought: Jesus Christ. He voiced it differently: ‘Okay, great.’
But it was another hour before he was even home. Afternoon traffic was ill-suited to pressing engagements. His living room smelled like an attic. The ash-heaped saucer sat unmoved since Monday night.
He browsed a heap of mail on the table, like something might have been added covertly. Mortgage to pay. Thank God crime was rampant.
He showered and shaved and searched for fresh attire. His wardrobe was limited on the casual dress front. He unearthed a clean shirt. Presentable jeans were a bigger challenge: he found a pair, belt still threaded. A trio of stretched buckle holes tracked a growing waistline. He went to the bathroom, checked his image. He was a two-tone of blues, but it would have to suffice. He leaned on the sink and gave himself a stare. How long before that gradually retracting hairline was classed as a widow’s peak? Was that jowl-droop taking hold?
Thirty-four years old, but he was a ringer for forty. A six-year margin between his true and apparent ages. He wondered if that difference would hold constant, or gradually increase. Probably the latter: he couldn’t recall looking thirty when he was twenty-four.
It wasn’t until after six that he reached the house in Herne Bay. Guest cars made parking scarce: he left the Commodore up the street and walked back. Tall walls and tightly coiffed hedges protected some of the city’s most exclusive real estate. He felt fraudulent, strolling amid such wealth.
Ellen was in the entry hall when he reached the house. Smile in place, trading niceties with exquisitely composed new arrivals. She saw him and threaded deftly through pastel-coloured dawdlers. She leaned on one tiptoed foot and kissed his cheek.
‘I thought you were coming early.’
‘I was. Nobody told the traffic.’
She smiled and made no reply.
‘You look nice,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ She flicked her head. ‘Come and say hi to Dad.’
She led him through the dining area, past the table they’d sat at, to the living room. It reeked of exclusivity: he heard politicians name-dropped, mention of yachts and the Royal Auckland Golf Club. Her father was ensconced by a group of small, balding men. They parted when they saw Ellen.
‘Dad. Sean’s here.’
A hand on the small of his back, nudging him onward, and then she was gone.
Her father smiled. ‘Sean. Hi.’
‘Hello, Russell.’
‘Please. It’s Russ. Everybody, this is Ellen’s friend, Sean.’
A wave of raised wine glasses circuited the gathering. He sent a smile round.
‘Sean’s a police detective,’ Russell said.
Mild approval rumbled.
‘How was the trip?’ Devereaux said.
Russell closed his eyes and nodded. He was a short, heavy man in his early sixties. He’d lost weight while overseas: empty skin hung below his jaw like a sheaf of old leather. ‘The Czech Republic was just sublime. Just sublime. Have you ever been?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Oh, it was great.’
Devereaux stood and waited for further enlightenment. He was left wanting.
Russell said, ‘Peter, how was the golf?’
A man in tan corduroys and boat shoes said, ‘Oh, good. Greens are swift this time of year.’ He frowned and looked at his feet. ‘Lot of Koreans, though. Even busier than usual.’
Russell said, ‘Ah, yes.’ He licked his lips, and a smile flickered. ‘The ah, Koddians, luff dere goff.’
A nervous laugh flitted back and forth. Devereaux stood there blankly. Idle chat drifted round the circle. Devereaux watched it from side to side, like waiting to cross through light traffic. Members of the group began to peel off as more guests arrived. Eventually, only he and Russell remained.
Russell stepped close. A frown put parallel score marks above his nose. ‘Now,’ he said. A whisper. ‘What’s this business I hear about you being involved with a shooting this week?’
‘I shot someone on Monday.’
‘Yes, Ellen said. Has there been much media attention?’
‘A bit. It’s been okay.’
Russell nodded. He swilled his wine glass, two fingers. ‘What happened?’
‘Guy was a golfer. He was shirking his green fees.’
Russell laughed. ‘Really?’
‘No. He was a robbery suspect.’
‘So how’s Ellen taking it? She seemed a wee bit concerned.’
‘I think she’ll pull through.’
‘Okay, good. And what about the man that was shot?’
‘He caught the train.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh, gosh. That’s a shame.’
‘Yeah. It’s a shame.’
‘Well. Maybe just stick to the pepper spray next time.’
Devereaux didn’t reply. He couldn’t be bothered. He drifted away, weaved through the well-dressed throng. The dining table held a precise arrangement of wines and cheeses. He lingered and worked through some wedges of Brie.
‘Try to look happy.’
He turned and saw Ellen.
‘I am happy. This is my normal face.’
‘Oh. Good.’
‘You didn’t have to just leave me for your dad to snack on.’
She bit down a smile. ‘He’s not that bad.’
He waited for people to move out of earshot. ‘I feel a bit inadequate.’
‘Why?’
‘The only times I’ve handled a golf club is when it was someone’s murder weapon.’
She snared some cheese. ‘Maybe that’s a good thing.’
‘Why?’
She smiled and poked him in the ribs. ‘You’d be so shit at golf. I can see it now.’
‘Thanks. Where’s your mother?’
‘Gone out to get something.’ She checked her watch. ‘You’ve got at least another ten minutes before you’ll have to talk to her.’
‘Thank goodness. When’s dinner?’
‘Not until after nine probably.’ She gave him another poke. ‘Although you’re feeling a bit spongy; maybe you should give it a miss.’
‘Not only was that unfunny, it was also quite rude.’
She laughed. ‘You’re going to stay, aren’t you? You’re not going to try to escape early.’
‘No. I’ll stay for dinner.’ He smiled, and dropped his voice: ‘If you’re really lucky, I might even talk to your mum.’
‘Right. Was that meant to be Bogart?’
‘No. That was just me being suave.’
‘Right. Well, you can either stay here and work your way through the cheese or I can take you round and introduce you to people. Which would you prefer?’
‘Can I eat some cheese first?’
‘Okay. I’ll come back for you. You want some wine?’
‘No. I’ll get a beer in a minute.’
He walked outside onto the back deck. Fine-stemmed glasses with half-payloads stood balanced atop the rail. A palm slapped his shoulder blade with a clean snap. He turned around.
‘Sean, how’re things?’
Ellen’s brother, Ryan. He was in his thirties. Russell’s stature, but easier on the eyes. Devereaux suspected both children’s genes were biased towards their mother’s.
‘Good, Ryan. How are you?’
He shrugged and smiled. ‘You know how it is. Struggling by.’ He fingered a moustache that had been absent last time they met. He turned to a young woman in a cocktail dress riding his elbow. ‘This is Melissa, by the way. Don’t think you’ve met.’
They shook. Wine glass moisture or nerves had left her hand damp.
Ryan said, ‘Hey, I was sorry to hear about what happened on Monday. I hope that all gets sorted out okay.’
Devereaux smiled. ‘Yeah. I hope so too.’
A pause settled and bloomed into an aching silence. They looked out at the harbour.
Ryan said, ‘Listen, you should come for a beer sometime. The office is just up on Pitt Street, so you could shoot up sometime or I could come down. I don’t know.’
‘Yeah, that sounds good. Although things have been pretty flat out.’ He caught an errant hand raking his hair, dropped his arm at his side. ‘Hopefully, in a couple of weeks everything will have cooled down a bit, and we can sort something out.’
‘Yeah. Cool. That’d be good.’
Devereaux thought the quiet was going to flare again, but Ryan caught it. ‘Hey, I’ll leave you be; we’re still doing the rounds, but I’ll get you to meet some people later. My nephew heard you’re a cop and he’s absolutely dying to grill you about it, so I’ll come and hunt you out later.’
Devereaux’s cellphone started ringing. Ryan heard it. A blink of relief in his face at being handed an exit cue. He backed away, a finger aimed at Devereaux’s chest. ‘Good to see you, Sean. Go grab some wine or something.’
Melissa waved some fingers at him. Devereaux smiled and gave them a nod as he freed his phone. He palmed his free ear and ducked his head and answered.
‘Devereaux. Frank Briar speaking.’
‘Frankie. What a nice surprise.’
Briar paused. ‘You’ve been summoned,’ he said.
‘I’m busy.’
‘Whatever you’re doing, put it on hold.’
‘If you’ve got something to tell me, do it quickly. Cellphones give you brain cancer.’
Briar recited an address. ‘Sound familiar?’ he said.
It did sound familiar. He couldn’t think why, and then it hit. ‘Leroy Turner.’
‘Yeah, old Leroy.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Come and have a look.’
Devereaux glanced around, held his voice at a whisper. ‘Fuck you, Briar. Spit it out.’
Briar didn’t answer.
‘Is he dead?’ Devereaux said.
Briar ignored the question. ‘Get down here now. I hope you haven’t eaten yet.’
Briar hung up. Devereaux swore and hit the handrail with his palm. People nearby shot cautious glances. Hurried sips when he returned the looks.
He pocketed the phone and shouldered back inside through static doorway traffic. He couldn’t see Ellen. He found a clean wine glass on the table and levelle
d it up from a random bottle. Moët. It was beginning to lose its chill. Devereaux downed the glass in two swallows. The feat drew some stares. He left the room, bumped into Ryan again in the entry hall.
‘You’re heading out?’
‘Yeah. Something’s come up with work.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Yeah … Hey, I don’t know where Ellen is, but can you tell her I’ve got something urgent and I have to dash.’ She’d be angry, but there was nothing he could do about it.
‘Sure. Is everything okay.’
‘Hopefully. Thanks, Ryan.’
Ellen’s mother was just arriving as he was stepping out. She saw him and smiled.
‘Hello,’ she said.
The hesitation before she spoke told him she’d forgotten his name. He smiled back and raised an index finger. ‘One minute,’ he said. ‘Back soon.’
It was a lie, pure and uncut as they come. Maybe he was a sociopath. He walked to his car and drove away, his thoughts already with Leroy Turner.
THIRTY-TWO
WEDNESDAY, 15 FEBRUARY, 7.02 P.M.
A jolt of déjà vu on the way in: the same homeless guy on the same bench, the same funereal pose. Bad omen? Maybe a superstitious man would have been more shaken.
The kerb outside Turner’s house was already busy: a Scene of Crimes van, two marked patrol cars, two detective’s rides, a ’69 Chevy Camaro in light grey. Maybe Lloyd Bowen and Frank Briar in the unmarked vehicles, The Don in the Camaro. Vintage muscle sheathed in gunmetal screamed McCarthy.
His heartbeat started to patter. It was the Scene of Crimes van that did it. Something about it implied bloodshed. Neighbours had caught the same vibe: knots of concerned bystanders occupied the opposite kerb. An old woman watched from a doorway across the street.
Please don’t be dead, Leroy.
He parked two doors down and walked back. He kept his head down, lest he be asked to comment. His phone was in the glove box: he wanted some distance on it in case of party-related backlash.
